When I opened the locket, there was a photo of the three of us at the county fair.
I was missing my two front teeth, had cotton candy smeared on my chin, and Mom and Dad were laughing like they’d just invented happiness.
Her hands shook as she fastened it around my neck.
“When you wear this,” she said, pressing the locket gently against my chest, “you’ll remember the sound of my laugh. The way our house smelled when we burned the cookies by accident.
The exact place you always felt safest.” She tapped right over my heart. “This isn’t goodbye, sweetheart. This locket will always help us find each other.”
I’ve worn that locket almost every single day since then.
Little did I know it would one day spark a battle I never asked for.
A few months later, when I was still only ten, cancer finally won.
One day, Mom was there, whispering promises into my hair, and the next morning she was gone forever. The world felt suddenly colder, even in daylight.
She was buried in the lilac dress she’d always loved, and that silver locket became the last piece of her I could hold on to.
They met at a community fundraiser where Dad’s company had donated money. Helen stood out immediately.
She was polished, confident, the kind of woman who knew how to command a room. Next to her, I always felt like a shadow.
After watching Dad’s grief consume him for months, she seemed like a lifeline, throwing him back to the world of the living. For that, I wanted to be grateful.
Within a year, they were married in a small ceremony.Continue reading…
